


follow you down

by Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Antagonism, Breathplay, Consent Issues, Guilt, M/M, Poor Life Choices, Post-Coital, Post-HYDRA Reveal, Power Dynamics, Praise Kink, Prompt Fic, Rough Sex, Safeword Use, Unhealthy Relationships, not exactly Safe Sane and Consensual
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-05-18 08:15:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19330651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/pseuds/Sandrine%20Shaw
Summary: Sleeping with Rumlow was a bad idea. Coming back for more, though - that's the worst part.(A collection of short, very loosely connected Steve/Rumlow ficlets.)





	1. (un)safe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"You know me. I don't do 'safe'." Rumlow spits out the word like a curse, like _safety_ in itself is a despicable concept._
> 
> Prompt: ignored safewords.

Steve is too lost in the floaty buzz of pleasure to notice the hand around his throat until it tightens, until it changes from a steadying weight to the kind of pressure that makes warning lights go off in the back of his head.

"Wait, I don't —"

"Shh, don't worry, Big Guy, I got you." The tone is soothing. Or at least it's meant to be soothing, but there's a grating undercurrent of condescension Steve can't ignore. The words are punctuated by slow, steady trusts that make him gasp and send a fresh flash arousal down his cock, temporarily distracting him.

Then the fingers tighten more, and it's too much. 

He twists in the adamantium cuffs and shakes his head frantically, as much as the grip allows, staring up into eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "No, stop. Red. _Red._."

The change in the Rumlow's expression is immediate. Something flashes in the dark eyes, and the grip on Steve's throat relaxes. 

He takes a steadying breath. The panic in his gut slowly evaporates, and he thinks it's going to be fine until the hand locks down again, even firmer now, the grip bruising and impossibly tight, not leaving him enough room to protest, not leaving him enough room to breathe. 

He feels dizzy. His world narrows down to sensations: the burning in his chest, the heat of Rumlow's body on top of his, skin against skin, warm breath on his face, jackhammer thrusts rocking his body, each one hitting his prostate, precise and with too much force behind them. Again, and again, and again, and again. Darkness around the edges of his vision, the need to breathe overwhelming, like his body wants to rip apart.

He comes so hard he blacks out.

*

The first thing he does when he's conscious and out of the cuffs is throw a punch. Despite the serum speeding up his recovery, he's still wobbly and lightheaded, but it feels too damn good. Still, he can't quite suppress the sense of guilt when the grin Rumlow levels at him is blood-stained. He pushes the guilt down, concentrates on his anger instead.

"I safeworded out, you jerk!"

He only gets a shrug in response. "What's the big deal? I knew you could take it. And you came all over the sheets, didn't you? So quit fucking whining."

Oh for — He can't believe the gall of thinking that an orgasm somehow makes this right. It's classic Rumlow, who stubbornly believes that the ends justify the means. The nonchalance only pisses Steve off more. 

"What's the point of having a safeword if you're gonna ignore it anyway?"

"Preaching to the choir there. Never saw the fucking point. You know me. I don't do _safe_." The word comes out like a curse, like _safety_ in itself is a despicable concept. "And neither do you, or you'd have called this quits a long time ago. So spare me the hissy fit or get the fuck out."

Steve should be doing just that. Get out, get away, delete the number, never look back. Inform Fury and the others of Rumlow's whereabouts, while he's at it. If Captain America was even half as righteous as everyone believes he was, that's what he'd do.

Instead, he lets himself be pulled into a kiss that tastes like blood, bitter and angry. There's nothing safe about it. Nothing's ever been safe about any of this.


	2. good boy (bad habits)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He loves it. He hates it. Hates how much he loves it._
> 
> Prompt: praise kink.

 

"Look at you, how well you take it. Yeah, just like that."

Steve arches his back and fights against the urge to drift off. It's difficult to not just let himself be washed away by the sensations, and the low, sandpaper-rough string of praises doesn't make it any easier. "It's like you were fucking made for this. Such a good boy."

He loves it. He hates it. Hates how much he loves it. Hates how his body is chasing the approval, how it reacts to it, cock hardening and desire coiling tightly in his stomach.

"Jesus, Cap. You're so fucking perfect, makes me wanna ruin you." Whispered right against his ear like a secret he's meant to keep, followed by a quick, dirty flick of tongue against his skin. 

He bites his lip so hard that he tastes blood in an effort to hold in the 'yes, please' that's sitting on the tip of his tongue, waiting to come out.

 


	3. the crash always comes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Steve doesn't set out to get fucked, doesn't want it until he suddenly does, doesn't understand what made him want it once its over. Until it starts again._  
> 
> Prompt: post-orgasm shame.

The post-orgasmic haze passes too quickly, like it always does, Steve's supercharged body burning through the endorphin rush as fast as it burns through pain and medication and alcohol. All that remains is a hollowed out feeling and the bitter taste of shame over how badly he wanted it and how easily the pleas had spilt from his mouth, asking for Rumlow to go harder, faster, to make him feel it, make it _hurt_. 

Steve grinds his teeth when Rumlow pulls out, the soreness and ache that he was mindlessly chasing only minutes ago suddenly unpleasant now, even if he's glad to put some distance between them and disentangle their bodies. There's something about the physical intimacy that makes his stomach turn, a sickening sense of vulnerability that didn't bother him earlier and now leaves him feeling queasy. He can't bring himself to meet Rumlow's gaze, barely able to resist the temptation to cover himself, unwilling to give himself away like that.

As if Rumlow can't read him like an open book anyway.

"Bit late for the blushing virgin act," he taunts with a leer. "Hate to tell you, but you ain't that pure, Cap."

Steve wants to punch that damn smirk off his face. 

It's tempting, but it's also a bad idea because that's exactly how they got here. It's how this always happens, every damn time, almost inevitably: Rumlow and him locked in a fight, one of them pinned to the floor or a wall, fists connecting with skin, drawing blood, adrenaline pumping through their veins until someone turns a headbutt into a biting kiss, until blows turn into tearing at each other's clothes. Steve doesn't set out to get fucked, doesn't want it until he suddenly does, doesn't understand what made him want it once its over. Until it starts again. 

So Steve holds himself back, restraining himself to showing Rumlow the finger instead of throwing the punch he's itching to throw. 

Rumlow laughs. "Too fucked out for a good comeback?"

Well, yes, that too, but Steve has no intention of admitting that. 

"No offense, Rumlow, but I don't have much interest in making small talk with you."

He means it as a jibe, but Rumlow turns it around and makes a mockery of it. "What, you're too good to talk to me? Guess I should feel insulted." His grin widens, pulling at the scar tissue around his mouth, making it obvious that whatever offense Steve intended doesn't faze him. "But you know what, big guy? As long as I'm good enough to fuck you, that's fine with me."

 _'You're not,'_ Steve wants to tell him. _'I hate you and everything you stand for, and you're the last person whose dick I want inside of me.'_

It wouldn't be a lie either. He feels that way, every time it's over. Or at least he feels like he _should_ feel that way. Which isn't quite the same thing, but close enough.

It doesn't explain why he begs for Rumlow's cock every time Rumlow got him flat on his back. Doesn't explain how hard he gets when Rumlow's sandpaper-rough voice provides running commentary about how well Steve takes it, how he was made for it, how much Rumlow wants to fucking ruin him, and the white-hot shame Steve feels only amplifies his arousal. 

No, Rumlow isn't _good enough_ to fuck him – he isn't good enough for anything – but Steve keeps asking for it anyway, which makes it all the worse. 

He wishes Rumlow would just leave so he can take a shower and stew in his guilt and self-loathing for a while before facing his teammates again. But of course, Rumlow doesn't make it that easy.

Even as Steve glares at him, Rumlow's gaze turns speculative and hungry. "Well, since you don't wanna chat and I'm too fucking tired to fight, how about round two?"

 _'Go to hell,'_ Steve doesn't say, biting down on his lip hard enough to draw blood. 

When Rumlow reaches out, Steve doesn't jerk away. Calloused fingers close around his dick, just this side of too rough. When did he get hard again? 

Deep in his gut, the familiar warmth spreads again. Steve closes his eyes and lets it wash over him, letting it drown out everything else.

 


End file.
